


We're All Stories In The End

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: AU, Bookstore AU, Chameleon Arch, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another Chameleon Arch AU - John Smith finds himself working in a bookshop when, one day, a girl named Clara wanders in. Why is she so familiar to him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hartnell & Sons

**Author's Note:**

> Simply another excuse for some whouffle. Takes place after The Angels Take Manhattan.

There was a faint tinkling, and John looked up to see a young woman walk into the shop.

Hartnell & Sons was a family heirloom — a small, dusty bookshop that had passed into his ownership after his parents had died. Tucked away in a quiet corner of London, he hadn’t expected to be back here so soon, nor deal with the logistics that came with running a shop. It was dull work, even with the bonus of being able to read on the job. Customers came infrequently, but it did, at least, do enough to make a living.

His clientele, though, hardly included young women who rode motorcycles.

Carefully, so as not to draw attention to the attention he was now paying her, he lifted his head from the book on his lap to watch as she wandered inside, tapping on the helmet clasped in her hands. She was looking for something, he thought. Which meant it wouldn’t be long before she noticed him, half-hidden behind the counter, but he continued to watch her stare up at the shelves.

She was very pretty, in a way that he couldn’t quite describe. It was almost as if she were familiar to him.

‘Do you need any help?’ At his query, she poked her head back around a shelf to look at him.

‘Oh. Hello. Yes. I’m looking for a book. Surprisingly enough,’ she added, walking towards him. John picked up another Jammi Dodger and offered her the plate, smiling.

‘You’ve come to the right place. Well, probably. If we have the book. I wouldn’t claim to have every book in the entire universe in stock, but if you give me a title, that might help.’ She looked at the biscuits, amused.

‘Seems a bit strange to be eating biscuits while you’re selling books?’

‘What’s wrong with strange?’

‘Nothing, still talking to you, aren’t I?’ Smirking, she took one. ‘It’s called, “The Centurion’s Box”. One of my students asked me about it, actually. It’s by Amelia Williams, but it’s one of her lesser known titles.’ John looked away, frowning, and she continued.

‘If you don’t have it, that’s alright, I just thought, since I couldn’t find it at any of the big bookstores, I’d better look around. Didn’t know this place existed until now.’

‘No, no, we’ve got it.’ Of course he had it. He’d set up that shelf as a little monument to them. His friends, long gone now.

Clearing his throat, trying to pull himself together, he gestured for her to follow him as he edged out from behind the counter. 

‘What did you say your name was?’ he asked, conscious of the fact that his curiosity was likely to end up in a personal investment in this new customer, and he really did not want that.

‘I didn’t. It’s Clara.’

‘Clara. Nice name. You should definitely keep it. Here we are,’ he said, leading her down the back to a set of books laid out, all by the same author. ‘Centurion, did you say? I think it’s here somewhere.’ 

‘You’ve got all of them,’ Clara replied in amazement, reaching out to pick one up. ‘Fan, are you?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking. Yes. My friend— my friend really liked her.’ Inexplicably, he felt a rush of sadness at the thought of Amy. He hadn’t thought about her and Rory for days. He thought he might finally have moved on from the ugly, grieving stage of grief. Perhaps not.

‘Well, there we are, Mr Centurion himself, it’s a good book, very heroic,’ he said, trying to babble his way out of the awkward silence and handing her the book. 

‘Thanks. I might just look around for a little longer?’ 

‘Of course, of course.’ John nodded, fiddling with his bow tie as he made his way back to the counter. He’d very nearly opened himself up to a complete stranger. And he almost wanted to. 

He was filled with a longing to see his friends again, but they were gone, sleeping under the earth now. There weren’t even any photographs of them left; he’d destroyed them, during that brief period where grief had morphed into blind rage. He regretted that, now, but he still felt that the blame lay with him. It was his fault they were dead.

As he pushed a few of the biscuits around the plate, Amy’s face swam to the surface of his mind. This is what happens when you make friends, he thought. They leave. They forget about you. They die. However friendly, and strangely familiar, Clara might seem, it just wasn’t worth it. His one consolation was that, at the very least, Amy and Rory were together in death.

With a start, he realised Clara was now standing in front of him, clutching the book he’d given her. She looked as though she might say something; there was concern in her eyes, and he didn’t like it. Half the reason he’d even agreed to take over the shop was to escape from the world. Emotional distance. He couldn’t go through all that again.

‘Alright, five pounds for the book, shall we say?’ 

He liked her though, felt drawn to her in a way that he’d not felt since Amy and Rory. But she needed to leave.

‘Is that all? I’ll have to come back.’

‘Surely you have better things to do than hang around an old shop?’

‘I could say the same for you. Doesn’t look like you’ve ever left.’ She gave him a little smile, taking another biscuit, and he thought she might be making fun of him. ‘Besides, I don’t even know _your_ name. We’ve only just met.’

‘John. But forget about me.’

‘Why should I? You’ve just sold me a very cheap book, and given me two biscuits.’

‘I didn’t give you the second one,’ he clarified, but despite himself, a smile was creeping onto his face.

‘But you wanted to. Pleasure doing business with you, John.’ Abruptly, Clara tucked the book into her bag and strolled out the door.

‘And you, Clara,’ he replied, as the door clanged shut. Sighing, he pushed his glasses back onto his nose, and picked up his book. 

‘She’s not going to come back, and you don’t care,’ he insisted, dropping the bookmark on the counter.

He knew at least one of those two things was a lie.


	2. A Date?

The following Wednesday found John in much the same position, at the front counter of the bookshop, eating biscuits, though this time he was poring over a faded 19th century atlas. He’d not seen or heard anything of Clara in the few days since she’d walked in, and he was perfectly happy with that. Sure, he liked her, but getting himself into any kind of relationship at all was dangerous territory. The fact that all he had was her first name and that she was probably a teacher meant he didn’t have much to go on if he really _had_ wanted to look for her.

He didn’t. Really.

So it was with an exaggerated response that he watched her walk into the shop again that day. The half-empty biscuit packet slid to the floor, and he nearly tripped over it as he straightened up to look at her.

‘Clara!’ She stared at him for a moment, and he stared back, a little pink in the face, before it occurred to him to follow up this brief exclamation.

‘Isn’t it a school day?’ He glanced at the clock on the wall - it was only one in the afternoon. ‘I just meant— you said “students” last week, I thought you must be a teacher, but I guess if you’re not, that’s fine too. I like teachers,’ he finished lamely.

‘Oh, er— bad day. Took the rest of the day off sick, I didn’t feel like dealing with screaming Year 8’s this afternoon.’

‘Right.’ She certainly did look a little pale, and the question of, ‘Why did you choose to come here, then?’ died in his throat.

Clara nodded, and walked off towards the shelves without another word. Satisfied that he’d made enough of a fool of himself to scare her off, and hating himself for it at the same time, John buried himself in his atlas again.

Silence fell in the bookshop again, and if he really tried, John could pretend that it was still just him, alone. But it was _Clara_. She’d chosen to come back here, after his half-hearted attempt last week to convince her not to. Except she wasn’t talking to him, which was what he’d initially suspected. Despite his determination to not get involved, he couldn’t help but feel curious. It was a defining trait of his. A character flaw, some would say.

He found her poring over the Amelia Williams shelf again. After last week, he’d closed up early, gone upstairs to his flat and moped for a while, too sad to even shed tears over the loss of his best friends. Now he just felt guilty. Like they were watching him wasting his time in a little old shop, and berating him for it.

‘Your friend— they’re not around any more?’ She said it so quietly that John might have imagined it. But the way she said it suggested she knew Amy wasn’t just ‘gone’.

‘She died. They both did, Amy and Rory, always together.’ And even though he _was_ sad, the thought made him smile. The universe would never be able to tear those two apart.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said, and this time her voice was stronger; it was almost a demand. And before he could stop himself, before he could consider that she was a _stranger_ , and they were in a bookshop, and this was hardly the time, he was talking.

‘I travelled with them, for years. Just Amy, to start with, and then she married Rory, and he came along too. We saw everything. Venice, New York — we even visited NASA.’ He paused, picking up a book at random, staring at the girl on the cover. 

‘It was a car accident.’ He sighed, shaking his head. ‘I just asked them to go get coffee. It wasn’t—’ But a sniffling noise made him look up. Clara was wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve, and when she saw John looking at her, she cleared her throat.

‘Sorry, just a cold, it’s nothing.’ John pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. He wasn’t a _complete_ fool, although it did baffle him as to why his story would make her cry.

‘It’s the cold making you sad, is it?’ She laughed at that, and this time, when she looked at him, her eyes were dry.

‘My friend— my boyfriend, he was hit by a car. That’s why I’m not at school. It’s his birthday.’

‘Oh,’ was all he could think of saying. And then it occurred to him that he’d heard about a teacher being hit by a car recently. ‘Was that him? Funny name, wasn’t it? Pink?’

‘Yes.’ Giving back the handkerchief, unused, Clara strode off behind another shelf.

John stuffed it into his pocket and hit himself in the face with the book. Once again, his ability to be insensitive at the worst times had the words tumbling right out of his mouth. At least, he thought dully, she was unlikely to come back after that. 

He walked back to the front of the shop, still hitting his forehead with the book. When he got to the counter, he picked up the biscuit packet, and hit that with the book as well, muttering to himself. He should have gone after her, apologised, shared her sympathy. Instead, here he stood, looking quite pathetic, his bowtie askew.

‘Are you going to do that when you take me out for a drink?’ 

He spun around, catching the counter with his elbow. In pain, and confused, the most he could muster was, ‘What?’

‘A drink. We can talk a bit more — not necessarily about dead people. You didn’t offend me. That was his name. Danny Pink.’

‘I don’t—’ It was taking a while for his mind to catch up with her words. ‘Are you asking me out? Is that what this is?’

‘Tomorrow night, around eight? I’ll pick you up.’

‘I don’t drink.’

‘Then we can eat. You eat, right? I’ve got your number,’ she said, pointing to the sign on the counter. 

‘I really—’

‘Good.’ She smiled at him, and walked out the door.


	3. Pizza and Flux Capacitors

The phone was ringing, but John knew the only people who ever called him were telemarketers and people who wanted him to pay bills.

There was a plate of fish fingers on the table, and ‘Back to the Future’ playing on the small television set, but he wasn’t paying much attention to either. This was his usual routine. Dinner and a movie.

But seeing Clara had been the most interesting thing to happen all day — all week, even. After that, nothing seemed worth his time.

Strangely, the phone persisted. And then it went to his answering machine.

‘Hi, it’s John, if you’re looking for a book, it’s probably after hours, I’ll get back to you. If you’re looking for me, well, I suppose I’m not here, so I’ll probably get back to you too. Maybe. Leave a message, that’ll be helpful. And your name, don’t forget that. Ok. I think you just have to wait for it to beep—’ A loud beep cut across his voice.

‘John, it’s Clara, I know you’re there, you don’t seem like the type to be out past six anyway, so I’ll wait for you to pick up the phone.’ There was a pause, and John stared at the little contraption in disbelief. Not only was it Clara, but he realised now why she was so familiar. He’d heard her voice before, _somewhere_. ‘No? Well, alright then, I just wanted to say—’

‘No, alright, you got me, I’m here, hi, it’s John,’ he said, having finally reached over to pick up the phone.

‘Told you. Well, hi John, my name’s Clara Oswald, I teach English at Coal Hill School, and I’ve got a mouth on me, seriously, I think it wants to—’

‘Wait, why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m introducing myself properly. Sometimes, I say things I don’t mean, like today, when we were talking about— well, I panicked, and if you really don’t want to have a drink with me tomorrow night then that’s ok.’

‘Well, I suppose I could. Do I do that sort of thing? Is that what people do? Go out for a drink? With — we’re friends?’

‘You don’t have to. I was a bit, er, upset, today. I didn’t mean it. And I didn’t mean to suddenly cry in your shop, either, I promise I don’t do that sort of thing.’

‘But we _are_ friends now?’

‘Do you want to be?’ Friends? John hadn’t considered something like that for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to enjoy someone’s company. But he did. Clara was strange, and abrupt, but she was also nice, and John sensed that she wanted something more than just an ordinary, suburban life.

So had he, once. If he thought long enough, that feeling was still there. Dulled by grief, but there.

‘I don’t know why, but I want to say yes. And not just because you were the only person today who bought a book.’

‘But that had something to do with it?’

‘A considerable amount,’ John replied, and he laughed, easily, without even thinking about it. Within a few days, Clara had got in through his defence, through the bubble of solitude that no one had managed to slip past in over a year. And he was glad.

‘Well then, friends,’ she replied, and John smiled, watching as Marty McFly raced along on his skateboard. The voice in his head telling him _not_ to get attached to anyone else had been turned down. It was there, but he wasn’t listening. He just felt as though he was supposed to be friends with Clara.

‘In that case, you can come by the shop whenever you want. I’ll even give you a key.’

‘Are you sure?’ she laughed. ‘We might be friends, but we’re still strangers, and to me you’re still just a strange man with a bow tie and a big chin.’

‘Hey! My chin is not big!’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’m pretty sure friends don’t make fun of each other.’

‘Have you ever actually had a friend? I’m pretty sure that’s _exactly_ what they do.’ John huffed, rubbing his chin. 

‘Yeah, well, you’re short. And bossy.’ 

‘See, that wasn’t too hard, chin boy.’

‘I’m about three seconds away from hanging up.’

‘Can I come round and see you tomorrow then?’ That caught John’s attention. She was asking permission now?

‘Well, it’s a shop, I think that’s how they work, generally. You come in, get a book, we talk for a bit, and you leave again. Not complicated.’

‘That’s settled then, I’ll come by and we can talk about books and that ridiculous bow tie.’

‘It’s not—’ But Clara cut across him.

‘I like it. It’s… charming. And it takes away from the chin a bit. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, alright, tomorrow.’

‘Bye.’

John put the phone back down. Clara Oswald certainly was a mystery. Why she still wanted to see him, he couldn’t say. Perhaps she was lonely, without this boyfriend. Did she want another? From what he could tell, though, he wasn’t anything like Danny Pink at all. 

‘That can’t be it,’ he said to Doc, on his TV. 

The time-traveler didn’t respond.


	4. The Drunk Giraffe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring - you guessed it - the drunk giraffe himself.

John Smith certainly was a mystery.

Who even had a name like that? That was the kind of name you gave when you couldn’t be bothered coming up with a real alibi.

But Clara found that he was strange and kind and charming enough that she kept going over to the shop, enamoured by the conversations they had over his counter after the shop had closed. Whether it was a real name or not, he was more interesting than any of the real people she spoke to on a daily basis. Except perhaps some of the kids. But they didn’t count.

The _stories_ that he told. Clara could almost believe that he’d just lifted them out of the books around him, because surely you couldn’t just make that up? John insisted that they were true, though, stories of his travelling days. She’d never gotten around to it — maybe that was it. Maybe she just didn’t understand what it was like to travel.

He certainly seemed like he was on another planet, sometimes. She told herself it was companionship, not suspicion, that drew her to his shop every other evening, but she could never quite shake the feeling that he was almost too strange to be true.

Tonight, she brought a bottle of wine with her as she walked inside. A couple of Year 9’s had let themselves into her class during lunch and defaced a new set of ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ books, meaning she’d spent most of her afternoon lecturing them — while trying not to lose her temper — and overseeing their detention. As a result, she had a pounding headache that needed some alcohol. 

It wasn’t until she heard the bell tinkling above her head that she remembered what John had said about not drinking. More for her, she thought.

‘I know that face, that’s the face of “school children are the bane of my existence.”’

‘You’d be right about that just now,’ she said, leaning on the counter.

‘You look exhausted,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘Can I get you a drink? It’s on the house tonight.’

‘Brought my own.’ She pulled out the bottle, laughing, 

‘I should have known. Clara Oswald, prepared for anything.’ He got up, stacking a few books away. ‘But you can’t drink that down here. What if you ruin the merchandise?’

‘What do you suggest, then? Go upstairs?’ Clara smirked at the way John’s eyebrows jumped up. Evidently, he hadn’t realised that was the only other option. ‘Don’t you think we’re moving through this relationship a bit fast?’

‘Well, I mean, if you want. I suppose you could drink down here though. I can get you a glass. Or we could go upstairs. No one really goes upstairs. Except for me, of course.’

‘Sometimes I wonder how you manage to get your foot in your mouth past that big chin of yours.’ She rolled her eyes, walking to the steps. ‘If you’re alright with it, I am, because I need to sit down and have a drink and complain about these kids.’ Not looking back, she opened the door to his flat and walked inside. It was small, and crowded, and matched her idea of John perfectly. There were knick-knacks everywhere, and hurried notes to himself plastered everywhere else. No photos, though. A radio was playing faintly, but she couldn’t see it.

Clara was already opening the bottle and pouring them both a glass by the time John came up, looking bemused.

‘Take it,’ she said, handing him a glass, ‘and if you don’t want it, put it down, I’ll have it. Nice place,’ she added, looking around. As she sat down, she watched him take a large gulp, and screw up his face in disgust.

‘Nope, still don’t like it,’ he said. But he didn’t let go of the glass. Instead, he wandered across the room and turned the radio up. ‘I keep it on because it makes the place feel less empty,’ he explained, and Clara understood. She couldn’t stand the silence in her flat after Danny had died. Sometimes she turned the TV on just to read in the next room.

‘But you don’t like making friends,’ she replied, and it wasn’t a question. She already knew she was the first person to have been invited up here in a long time. But seclusion didn’t suit John. He had all these stories to tell and no one to trust, and in a way, prodding him into talking was helping Clara as well. Some of her enthusiasm was beginning to return.

Danny would never have liked to see her sit still for so long anyway. Life kept moving.

‘I’ve had plenty of friends,’ he replied defensively, putting down his now-empty glass.

‘Imaginary friends don’t count,’ Clara laughed. She poured them both another.

‘Now, see, you’re about to find out why I don’t drink.’ He was bobbing his head along to the music, trying to frown. ‘It becomes all too easy to find out about things I never talk about.’

‘Is that a warning?’ She smiled, watching him from across the room. ‘I already know about what happened to your friends.’

‘Oh, Clara Oswald, you don’t know the half of it.’ He shook his head in a way that seemed almost patronising.

‘What could you possibly be hiding, John Smith? We’re the same age. You work in a bookshop in a London suburb. I’m sure I’ve seen and done just as much as you have.’ It was a while before he answered; the song had changed and his glass was half-empty.

‘Imagine — a book, that’s been written backwards. Now, forget about it, it’s nothing like that.’ He was tapping his fingers on the radio, thinking. ‘There are all these memories of all these places I’ve been. And random bits are missing.’ Laughing, Clara got up, wanting to get a closer look at his collection of objects, only half-listening.

‘John, everyone forgets what they ate for breakfast.’ Her eyes passed over a round, shiny something, and she walked closer as John shook his head.

‘No, no, not like that. It’s not like I forgot the name of the town we were in.’ It was a fob watch, old and dented, but intriguing, somehow. ‘I mean we were in France one day and Alaska a month later and I don’t remember anything in between.’ Midway through turning the watch over in her hands, she looked up.

‘What? That’s still just forgetting things, John.’ She put the watch down, smirking.

‘But I don’t remember even wanting to go to Alaska while I was in France. It’s like someone’s just taken these experiences and stitched a bunch of them together.’ He poured himself another glass of wine, with slightly less accuracy than he might have done an hour ago. ‘And then there’s you. I feel like I know you from somewhere. Like I’ve spoken to you, before we ever met.’ Was it the alcohol making him talk, or had he been internalising this for a while?

‘John. You are being ridiculous. Relax.’ She downed her glass, took his, and put them both on the table. ‘You know how I relax? I dance.’ Taking both of his hands in hers, she tried to persuade him into moving, already feeling much calmer than she had been earlier.

‘You’re _joking_ ,’ he said, his feet staying firmly in place, though he swayed slightly.

‘Not joking.’ Clara shook her head, laughing. ‘Come on. You’re clearly in the right mood — even though you’ve barely had three glasses of wine.’

‘I told you, I don’t drink.’

‘I can see why.’ She herself was barely even tipsy, but the idea that John might be starting to come out of his shell, even just to her, was very appealing.

‘No, wait, I like this song,’ he said, stumbling past her. Amused, Clara watched as John raised his arms up above his head, and did a sort of wiggle as he walked forward. 

She burst out laughing. She couldn’t help it — it looked ridiculous.

‘What the hell was that?’ John laughed too, walking back towards her and leaning on her shoulders, quite heavily.

‘ _That_ is what happens when I drink all your wine.’

‘Hm, well, I can’t say that’s what I expected when I brought it over, but at least we’re having fun.’

‘Yes, I do like you, Clara Oswald. You’re fun. I was kind of hoping you’d leave and never come back, that first time you walked in, but I’m glad you did come back.’

‘I’m glad to know you thought so highly of me.’ She rolled her eyes and looked up, discovering that he was looking at her as though in a kind of trance.

‘Now, just a warning, I haven’t really done this in a long time, I’m probably rubbish.’ 

He promptly leaned down to kiss her. Clara was taken aback, but also just tipsy enough to return the kiss — for a few moments, at least. She ducked away fairly quickly, concerned that she might start to enjoy herself too much.

‘I kissed you,’ John said, almost wanting confirmation for his drunken actions.

‘You did.’

‘You kissed me back.’ Clara paused for half a heartbeat before answering this time.

‘I did.’

‘That was probably quite rude of me, wasn’t it? I’m sorry, maybe I should go, or— wait—’

‘It’s fine, I should be getting home anyway.’

‘Clara, I’m not—‘ John was struggling to get the words out of his mouth, and she wasn’t sure whether it was the wine or if it was just him. ‘I like you, I wanted to, but I don’t think—’

‘Don’t. Let’s not talk about this, not tonight. I really should go. Thanks.’ 

There was a very small part of her begging to stay, and just enjoy herself, but she hastened towards the door, afraid that this was going to bring up some uncomfortable feelings. It wasn’t even a good kiss.

But it was John.


	5. Wild Theories

It had been a couple of days since the 'incident', and John hadn't heard from Clara at all.

He tried to tell himself that she was just busy (they  _were_ school days, after all) — in the same way he tried to tell himself it had been an accident.

John didn't even remember much of the evening. All he knew was that he'd had a lot more to drink than he was used to, and he'd done a lot of talking, but exactly  _what_ he'd said remained a mystery.

He didn't really want to kiss Clara. She was just his friend. Just like Amy was his friend. And Rory.

Even though he'd also kissed both of them too. But that was different. They had each other, and the three of them together were friends. Clara was the same. They hung out in a bookshop, and laughed about their menial existence, and told each other outlandish stories.

So when the door to the shop opened on him and she bustled in, he was practically tripping over himself trying to explain.

'Clara! Look, about what happened — it was an accident, I was drunk, this is why I don't drink—'

'John, it's fine, don't worry about it.' She looked a little taken aback at his outburst. 'I  _know_ it was an accident, we're just... friends.'

'Yeah,' he said in relief, not quite picking up on Clara's forced tone.

'You've been fretting over that for days, haven't you?' She raised an eyebrow at him.

'Well...' he began. Admitting that wasn't exactly at the top of his to-do list.

'You haven't been so cooped up in here that you haven't picked up a newspaper, have you?'

The reply caught him off guard for a moment.

'What? I mean, I don't normally read the newspaper, but why?' It was then that John noticed that she looked a little haggard, like she hadn't slept properly in a while.

'It's just— there's some weird stuff going on. I could've sworn a few nights ago I heard someone going up and down my building, and now the old man two doors down's gone missing.' John considered this for a second. 

'Ok, so one old man is missing. Happens all the time?'

'Yeah, but... I've just got a weird feeling. There's this guy who I've started seeing in different places, like he's following me.'

John was struggling to connect the dots. Clara seemed a little spooked to him, and he wondered what had brought this on. Was this why she hadn't come to see him until now? Not his disastrous drunken kiss?

'I just thought, maybe— you're clever. And curious. I thought I might try working out what's going on.'

'Nothing's going on?' Now he was really confused. Neither of these events seemed connected by anything except paranoia, which was unlike Clara. Unless she was holding something back.

'Well...'

'What?'

'After I came home from yours the other night, I was thinking. There was a watch in your flat. And it gave me the same feeling — like all these things are linked.'

It took him several moments to work out what she was talking about.

'You mean that old fob watch? That's nothing, it's just a piece of junk, I meant to throw it out. But why would it have anything to do with those people? I've never even opened it.' All this talk seemed far-fetched — and for him, that was saying something. The watch meant nothing to him. He couldn't even remember how he'd acquired it, only that it was an antique that didn't even work any more. Why, of all things, had Clara been drawn to it?

Maybe something really  _was_ going on. With Clara.

'You mean you've never opened it? Aren't you even a little bit curious?'

'I don't understand what this is all about.'

She didn't answer for a moment, her eyes fixed on his.

* * *

'Nothing,' she said finally. 'It's probably nothing. I think I've just had a long day.'

Clara yawned, a little more emphatically than she might have done, and sat down on a little armchair by the counter. She could understand John's reaction, even if she  _was_ disappointed. There was almost no doubt in her mind that something strange was going on, all these small occurrences that she might never have even picked up on if she hadn't met John. Because she wasn't just floating between home and work any more. Talking to John gave her room to think about other things.

He was clever, and sweet, and had a whole bunch of his own wild stories to tell, and for the first time since Danny died, Clara was inspired to start really living again.

And the  _watch_. It was nondescript, hardly even afforded a place of honour in John's flat, but it held some kind of power, she was sure of it. She didn't know how she knew, but she did.

Add to that his strange musings on lost memories, and the way he _kissed_ her, and Clara simply didn't know  _what_ to think. There almost wasn't time to think about how she felt about John right now. It was too difficult, and all her emotions were still tangled up with Danny.

She hadn't been to visit John in a few days because she could hardly keep it off her mind. She'd even glanced in through the old man's window yesterday, looking for answers. But it had been dark, and empty, and gave nothing away.

' _I_ think you've been reading too much of Amelia Williams. Fairytales, you know. They're not- they're not  _real_.' As he said it, Clara thought a shadow of something like sadness passed over his eyes, like he didn't really believe it. But it was brief, and even John himself seemed not to notice.

'Is it so wrong for me to want something a little more interesting in my life? I mean, I love teaching, and I love those kids, but...' She trailed off, knowing John felt much the same. He'd already done a lot of travelling, though. Clara hadn't.

'I was going to travel, you know. And then-'

'-you did your friend a favour. I know,' John finished.

'It's not that I regret it, it just feels like something else has been controlling my life. After that, I just started teaching, because I liked it, and because all my friends had started to settle into regular jobs.'

She sighed, and through all of this, Clara noticed that John hadn't taken his eyes off her.

'I don't want the rest of my life to be the same as everyone else's. But I don't even know where to start. Maybe that's why I'm holding onto this so much. It's different.'

John continued to survey her in silence, and she felt as though she was being x-rayed.

'Well, don't do anything reckless. I don't think it's worth kicking up a fuss over, but I can't stop you.'

'Will you help me?'

'If you keep coming over here and talking about it, I'm sure I will,' he replied, giving his usual, goofy smile.

'You can count on that.'


	6. Flatwarming

Clara was on his mind more often than she wasn't these days. Even after she left the shop in the evening, and he closed up, John found himself thinking about something she said, or even the  _way_ she said it, or perhaps just how often she'd smiled at him. 

It was nice. There was something about having company that couldn't quite be emulated when he was on his own, much as he tried to tell himself he didn't need friends any more. 

He felt wanted. Appreciated. Clara came to him for advice on what books to give stubborn students, and he asked her whether the colour of his bow tie clashed with his coat. People walked into the shop every day, and John gave them polite conversation, but he only ever felt truly sociable when Clara came around.

There was a slippery slope ahead of him, and he was well aware of how bad things could get if he stumbled down and fell in love. Only he didn't think he wanted to avoid it.

'Step 1: Show her you're not a boring old fool in a shop. I think that might have worked quite well, she keeps visiting,' he muttered, reorganising a shelf of books by genre. With his back to the door and his mind on his task, he didn't notice the faint jingling of bells. 'Step 2: Give her something nice, to prove your friendship. Well, I already did that, I gave her a book. And biscuits. Maybe I should try something else. Like chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate.'

'I should think they do,' Clara laughed, and John whirled around so fast he nearly sent the books flying. 'Do you always talk to yourself? Actually, stupid question — of course you do.'

'That,' he said, wagging a finger at her, 'is rude.' A few books teetered precariously on the edge of the shelf, and he turned to prop them up again, covering his embarrassment. How much had she heard? Clara appearing out of nowhere in the shop wasn't exactly a rare occurrence any more — John wasn't sure why he was still so surprised by it.

'Listen,' she said, sounding business-like all of a sudden, 'I think I've found something.'

'Is it my dignity? Because I'd like it back.'

'No, it's about all that weird stuff. I found some mail that was supposed to be delivered to that man who disappeared, in the flat down from mine. It got posted to me by mistake, so I Googled the sender, and I think it's linked to the guy that's following me, but I want you to take a look.'

John frowned as he turned to look at her again. He still couldn't find any reason to believe Clara's suspicions were any more than that, but she seemed serious.

'Come on. Come over to my flat tonight, I'll even cook you dinner. And then we can look at it.'

'Is this just an excuse to invite me over for dinner?' In spite of her serious tone, Clara laughed.

'Well, I've been upstairs to your flat. I think it's time I returned the favour?' John thought for a moment. He  _had_ been thinking about closing up the shop early. But Clara barely waited for his nod before speaking again.

'I'll meet you there later, about six. Address is already on the counter.' 

'How did you even know I'd say yes?' But she was gone in a flash, as usual, waving to him from outside.

John watched as her motorcycle sped away, flattered that she valued his opinion so much, even if it was something he wasn't exactly raving about himself. But he _did_ enjoy a bit of mystery, even if it had been ages since he'd properly got himself into trouble over one. Perhaps if he allowed himself to let go again, to step out into the unknown...

After all, Clara had shaken up his life in the past few weeks and nothing bad had really happened. Was he being over-dramatic?

'Probably,' he said to himself, picking up her handwritten note on the counter.

* * *

At precisely 6:04, John found himself climbing the flights of stairs leading up to what he assumed would be Clara's flat, feeling more anxious than he thought was reasonable.

He didn't want to be late, even if Clara had only given an approximate time, but he didn't want to be early either, and appear over-eager to see her. In the end, the decision was made for him by the bus timetable anyway, so here he was, still clutching her note.

The trip had given him some time to turn the whole situation over in his head, and he'd decided to put in some investigative effort. For Clara. John knew she wasn't a fool, and even if he found the whole situation ludicrous, she didn't, and she was the one picking up clues firsthand, after all. Why not trust her instinct?

It wasn't as if there was much else for him to do.

John reached her landing and strolled along, counting the numbers on the door. When he reached hers, however, he stopped short. 

'No lights? Odd.'

Shrugging, he rapped smartly on the door, trying to peer in through the window. Nothing.

Straightening his bow tie, he called out, knocking on the door a little louder.

'Clara? It's me. It's John.' Had she forgotten? But he'd seen her less than two hours ago. Why would she invite him over and not be home? 

Maybe she'd only left for a moment. John stepped back to lean against the railing and wait for her. He was more curious than worried at this point — interestingly enough, this had piqued his curiosity more than all of her clues and suspicions had. Whistling to himself, he looked out on the grassy fields several floors below him, wondering if he might spot her in the semi-darkness. 

He didn't notice a figure walking towards him until he spoke.

'Looking for Clara?' The man leant against his cane, staring at John, the top hat adding to his already imposing height.

'Who're you?'

'Don't play the fool, Doctor. Don't you want to know where your little friend is? Or is girlfriend more appropriate?'

John was utterly confused now. Clara was  _not_ his girlfriend. He had a feeling she would hit him if he called her that. And who was this Doctor?

'I think you have the wrong man.'

'That Chameleon Arch of yours works rather well, doesn't it? I'm impressed. You still look and sound the same — and yet, you are but a simple human, incapable of saving your friend from a terrible fate.'

'Are you talking about Clara? What have you done to her?'

'Nothing, yet. But I want you to cooperate, Doctor.  _John_. Bring me the watch and she won't be harmed. Resist, and I might find that  _breaking_ your new toy is more amusing than just watching her struggle.'

'I don't know what you're talking about. I really don't. But don't hurt her. Leave her out of it.'

'You know. You know what watch I'm talking about, and you know where to find me. Remember where you parked your TARDIS? I found it, the warehouse that you thought was so hidden away from the world. Bring the watch. You have 24 hours.'

The strange man turned and walked away, and John ran after him, but as he caught a fistful of his coat, he vanished. Something fluttered down onto the ground in front of him, and John leaned down to pick it up. It looked like an ordinary business card, with the letters 'GI' embellished upon it.

Could he possibly have imagined it? The only evidence he had was this tiny rectangle of card. But the man seemed threatening, in a quiet and menacing kind of way, and if Clara was in danger, he had to do something. No one else knew.

And the curious thing was, there _was_ a watch. Clara herself had mentioned it, hadn't she? She'd almost picked it up when he was stumbling drunkenly around his own flat. John had forgotten he even owned it. It was battered, and didn't work, or even open, but Clara seemed to think it was connected. It couldn't be purely coincidental.

He knew the warehouse he mentioned, too, although only in passing, and he had no idea what a TARDIS was. A car? He wasn't exactly a capable driver.

Clara's mystery was certainly turning into more than he'd expected, that was for sure. 


End file.
